an imitator of the master left in the land. All his own genius was
needed to carry his mannerisms; the mannerisms without the genius
were an armour that no devoted David had proved, that none could
wear with success.

Of all great writers since Scott, Dickens is probably the man to
whom the world owes most gratitude. No other has caused so many sad
hearts to be lifted up in laughter; no other has added so much mirth
to the toilsome and perplexed life of men, of poor and rich, of
learned and unlearned. "A vast hope has passed across the world,"
says Alfred de Musset; we may say that with Dickens a happy smile, a
joyous laugh, went round this earth. To have made us laugh so
frequently, so inextinguishably, so kindly--that is his great good
deed. It will be said, and with a great deal of truth, that he has
purged us with pity and terror as well as with laughter. But it is
becoming plain that his command of tears is less assured than of
old, and I cannot honestly regret that some of his pathos--not all,
by any means--is losing its charm and its certainty of appeal.
Dickens's humour was rarely too obvious; it was essentially
personal, original, quaint, unexpected, and his own. His pathos was
not infrequently derived from sources open to all the world, and
capable of being drawn from by very commonplace writers. Little
Nells and Dombeys, children unhappy, overthrown early in the melee
of the world, and dying among weeping readers, no longer affect us
as they affected another generation. Mrs. Beecher Stowe and the
author of "Misunderstood," once made some people weep like anything
by these simple means. Ouida can do it; plenty of people can do it.
Dickens lives by virtue of what none but he can do: by virtue of
Sairey Gamp, and Sam Weller, and Dick Swiveller, and Mr. Squeers,
with a thousand other old friends, of whom we can never weary. No